man-trapped, wild-pig runs of the mountain bush-men; and of the final
rescue by Tasman, he who was hatcheted only last year and whose head
reposed in some Melanesian stronghold--and all breathing of the warmth
and abandon and savagery of the burning islands of the sun.

And despite himself, Frederick sat entranced; and when all the tale was
told, he was aware of a queer emptiness. He remembered back to his
boyhood, when he had pored over the illustrations in the old-fashioned
geography. He, too, had dreamed of amazing adventure in far places and
desired to go out on the shining ways. And he had planned to go; yet he
had known only work and duty. Perhaps that was the difference. Perhaps
that was the secret of the strange wisdom in his brother's eyes. For
the moment, faint and far, vicariously, he glimpsed the lordly vision
his brother had seen. He remembered a sharp saying of Polly's. "You have
missed romance. You traded it for dividends." She was right, and yet,
not fair. He had wanted romance, but the work had been placed ready to
his hand. He had toiled and moiled, day and night, and been faithful to
his trust. Yet he had missed love and the world-living that was forever
a-whisper in his brother. And what had Tom done to deserve it?--a
wastrel and an idle singer of songs.

His place was high. He was going to be the next governor of California.
But what man would come to him and lie to him out of love? The thought
of all his property seemed to put a dry and gritty taste in his mouth.
Property! Now that he looked at it, one thousand dollars was like any
other thousand dollars; and one day (of his days) was like any other
day. He had never made the pictures in the geography come true. He had
not struck his man, nor lighted his cigar at a match held in a woman's
hand. A man could sleep in only one bed at a time--Tom had said that. He
shuddered as he strove to estimate how many beds he owned, how many